


A Little Death

by embeer2004



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: A Little Death, Blindfolds, Darkfic, Dehydration, Gags, Isolation, Knifeplay, M/M, Prison, Solitary Confinement, Starvation, Strangulation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004
Summary: Geralt’s been placed in solitary confinement after the fight with the prison inmates, left all alone in the dark. Until one day the door to his cell opens…
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42
Collections: Witcher Kinkmeme Collection





	A Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> Prepare yourself, this is a darker piece (wouldn’t call it a “dead dove: do not eat” though), inspired by the way Geralt’s treated when he is in prison (thus, letting Dettlaff go). And additionally also by the Elven Bath song of Witcher 2 which just sounds incredibly creepy to me.  
> See endnotes for more info!

* * *

“Here of your own free will, Stefan? Or did they lock you up, too?” Geralt knows he's losing it, talking to a rat that has managed to squeeze through one of the cracks in the walls of his cell.  
  
He's been in this sort of situation often enough not to be bothered by the chittering noise the animal makes, and as long as the rat doesn't try to have a nibble of witcher or use him as a climbing pole it can do as it pleases. It's nice, actually, to hear something else than his own breathing and his heart beating in his ears.  
  
_How long has it been?  
  
_His face hurts as he tries to remember and he forces his brows to relax, or, at least, tries. _  
_   
The nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach has increased tenfold since his last meal. The meagre amount of bread and water had been even less than what they’d given him before, when he'd been free to move among the inmates.  
  
Prison rations were never enough for a witcher, but Geralt had long given up on complaining.  
  
Speaking out only got you lashed.  
  
But it’s been so long ago since his last meal. At least, that’s what his gut is whimpering at him, and his nausea from the hunger is made so much worse by the smells inside his cell. Geralt doesn’t want to throw up. _Again_. He needs to find a distraction.  
  
_Come on, then! How many days?_  
  
Grabbing his temples, Geralt grits his teeth and draws his knees up to his chest, then starts rocking back and forth. It's driving him crazy that he can't set more than one step inside his tiny prison. His skin feels tight, and despite the quenching nausea roiling in his belly he feels all jittery.  
  
The work orders he’d found in the ruins of what had once been Bastoy Prison had certainly been insightful, but apparently none of the reforms of Henri the Third’s failed experiment had carried over to Toussaint Prison.  
  
Sighing, Geralt grips his knees tightly and stares at the door. It's daytime now, of that he’s is sure. Somehow, a little bit of light is making its way down to him, enabling him to see the dark shadow of his own body and, when he looks slightly off to the side, Stefan's small body.  
  
“Bet you're thinking about food, what you'll eat once you're free.” But there would be no miracles for Geralt, not this time. He’s done this to himself and now he’ll have to live with the consequences.  
  
Stefan lets out a loud squeak, as though it's agreeing vehemently. The little rat scurries off to one of the darker shadows, and though Geralt can no longer see the animal he’s pleased that he’s not alone anymore. They’re in this together now, him and Stefan.  
  
“Mutton leg, that's what I'm dreaming of. Well-roasted on the outside, nice and juicy in the middle…” Oh, and why did he have to say that out loud? He presses a hand to his stomach and curls up even tighter.  
  
_Six, seven days? Are we at weeks, already?_  
_  
_ Geralt _knows_ that captivity distorts the flow of time, especially time in isolation, but he should be able to figure this out!  
  
_Time, a most crucial ingredient._ Gaunter’s teasing voice flits through his mind.  
  
Huffing a laugh, Geralt buries his face against his legs.  
  
The sound of metal clanging on stone reaches his ears, and Geralt perks up and stares at the door, listening as the clanging gets louder and louder.  
  
_Someone's coming._  
  
He doesn’t remember when he last heard the guards, and that nags at him. Must have been around the same time as he was given his last rations?  
  
His body tenses as the door creaks, and then he’s blinded by the glare of a flaming torch. His eyes burn and sting, and Geralt looks away from the glare, hoping that his eyes will adjust quickly.  
  
“Are you the lout from Rivia?” The guard asks, and he must hail from Nilfgaard, going by his accent, which is slightly different from the Toussaintois’.  
  
“Yep, I'm that lout,” Geralt admits, trying to adjust his pupils so he can look at the guard, but he’s too exhausted and his eyes won’t cooperate.   
  
“Stand up, turn around. Hands behind your back,” the guard orders, leaning to the side and fiddling around with something. Then the torch is gone, placed somewhere just out of Geralt’s sight; set in a sconce, likely.  
  
Silently, Geralt uncurls from his position and carefully makes his way to a stand. He’s glad the guard has come for him now; any longer in the dark and he’s not sure he would’ve been able to get up on his own anymore. His limbs feel dull and his head’s spinning, and pins and needles attack his bare feet the moment he stands, but he forces himself to move towards the guard. He’s been given an order, and he knows from personal experience that here in Toussaint Prison orders must be followed immediately.  
  
He could fight the guards, this one in particular; just an axii would be enough, and then he could steal the man’s clothes and walk out of here.  
  
But they’ll find him. He’ll never be safe. He’s here of his own free will, he reminds himself. It’s his penance.  
  
The guard waits until Geralt has turned around and then roughly grabs his arms and starts winding coarse rope around his wrists. “No funny business,” he drawls in that awful accent, then grasps Geralt’s hip and wildly spins him around, pushing Geralt until he’s in front of the guard.  
  
Swallowing heavily, Geralt wobbles and inwardly curses himself for taking so long to find his balance. For the first time in he doesn’t know how long he’s outside of his cell, and goosebumps appear on his flesh as the cool air of the dungeon hits his skin. He feels like he can finally _breathe_ again, and yes… that draft of fresh air coming from the stairs is _wonderful_ , even though it makes him shiver.  
  
He keeps his eyes to the floor, still getting used to the brightness of the outside, and he shuffles on his feet, trying to get rid of the pins and needles.  
  
“Stop that!” The guard squeezes Geralt’s forearm in warning while grabbing the torch with his free hand.  
  
Stilling, Geralt’s shoulders hunch and he stares at a spot on the ground, awaiting the next order.  
  
It doesn’t take long for the guard to wave the torch in his face before pointing to the stairs with it. “Up,” the man tells him, releasing his arm and giving him a harsh shove.  
  
Geralt turns all his attention towards placing one foot in front of the other, careful not to end up twisting his ankles as he still awaits for the feeling in his feet and calves to return. The climb up the stairs actually helps, though it’s difficult to traverse the first flight. When he’s up on the first plateau though he breathes a small sigh of relief.  
  
“Do not dawdle!” The guard grabs his bound wrists and pushes, guiding Geralt towards the right. “This way.”   
  
Geralt doesn’t know what to think as they turn down a brightly lit corridor instead of continuing their trek up to the prison yard, but he obediently allows himself to be shoved and jostled at the guard’s will.  
  
There are four doors along each side of the corridor, and Geralt’s being led all the way down until he’s standing next to the fourth door on the right. All air leaves him as the guard shoves him against the wall face first, pushing his metal-clad elbow against Geralt’s back, just beneath his ribs. Geralt’s breath gets stuck in his throat, and there’s a sharp dull pain near his kidney as the man’s armour digs into him brutally.  
  
“Don’t move,” the guard orders, pressing just a bit harder with his elbow until Geralt slumps in his grip and ends up leaning heavily against the wall.  
  
Seemingly satisfied that his prisoner’s not going anywhere, the guard takes his time to open the lock on the door before grabbing Geralt’s arm and forcefully walking him inside.  
  
The room turns out to be another cell, though it’s much bigger than the one Geralt just came from. This far underground, there are no windows, and the cell is another dark place, with stone walls on each side, and only the heavy wooden door for entry.  
  
The guard puts the flaming torch in a sconce just inside before moving Geralt to the centre of the room, where a metal bar is hanging suspended from a chain; a cuff welded to each end. This too, is familiar to Geralt, and the scars on his back burn as the guard cuts the rope from his wrists before putting him in the metal cuffs, facing him away from the door.  
  
The bar is fixed in a high position, forcing Geralt on the balls of his feet, and he lets out a displeased grunt as the guard kneels down.  
  
Somehow Geralt had missed the shackles attached to two separate rings in the floor, an arm’s length apart from each other.  
  
The prickling that flutters through his body as the guard finishes cuffing his ankles sets his hair on end, and his instincts scream at him to _flee_ , to _fight_ , but it’s too late, and then Geralt’s left straining to stay upright on his own, now forced onto the tips of his toes. He _needs_ to stay upright on his own; if he doesn’t, if he allows himself to sag into the cuffs he knows he’ll end up with bloodless hands, and that just _not good_.  
  
He needs his hands if he’s to escape.  
  
Wait.  
  
There’s no escape. Not this time.  
  
“Don’t go anywhere,” the guard taunts, patting Geralt’s cheek before walking away. He takes the torch with him as he leaves the cell.  
  
Geralt’s heart is thumping loudly in his ears as he hears the key turning in the lock and then metal boots softly clanking on the stones, getting softer and softer until not even Geralt’s keen ears can pick up any sounds besides his own breathing.  
  
The room is pitch black; there’s nothing to see. All around him is the same blackness…  
  
Cuffed the way he is, with his legs spread just too far apart, forcing him to balance precariously on the tips of his toes, and his shoulders straining as his arms are forced high up above him, he’s truly stuck.  
  
Geralt’s chest heaves and he pulls on his wrists, but there’s no give. Not even his signs are useful now. He’s trapped. He can’t escape. Vulnerable. Defenceless.  
  
Alone.  
  
_The guard bring peace to our domains…  
  
Flout its writ and rot in chains!_  
  
Geralt’s forces himself to breathe through his nose and to focus on the fresher air passing through it. He’s been through this before. This is nothing new. Just scare tactics and intimidation.  
  
He manages to fidget a bit on the spot; a slight rocking motion, like he’d once see Regis do on a full moon when he’d been in his bat form, hanging upside down from a tree limb.  
  
_At least Regis is safe, and he’ll have Dettlaff, even when I am long gone. The blackmailer’s been dealt with, and Dettlaff’s no longer a threat. Regis didn’t have to kill his friend…  
  
_The burst of relief that settles in his heart at that thought warms his trembling limbs. His decision not to kill Dettlaff had been made solely for Regis. His friend wouldn’t be alone…  
  
Bringing Syanna’s body back to her sister had been solely for Syanna, who deserved to be buried with her family, though Anna Henrietta certainly deserved the closure.  
  
So many bad decisions had been made. By all of them.  
  
And now it is over and done with. Too late to take anything back.  
  
He wonders when his trial will be, or whether Anna Henrietta will decide to not even give him a trial, but to let him rot away in Toussaint’s darkest cells; the matter decided already. He’ll abide by her ruling, no matter her verdict, but it would be nice to know if one day he’ll find himself dragged up to the yard to lose his head, or if his current situation will be his life from now on.  
  
The Duchess and her men are right to be furious with him.  
  
Would he change anything if he had the power?  
  
His mind turns fuzzy as he balances in the darkness, like his head is stuffed with warm cotton, and his thoughts whirl dizzyingly, always coming back to the same points.  
  
He must have been in a meditation of some sort, because the next thing he’s aware of is the sting in his cheek and his head whipping to the side. He’s jostled so much that it causes him to lose his balance, and there’s a cold, sharp burning on his wrists as he’s sagging in his shackles.  
  
“How low you have fallen, witcher,” a familiar voice growls at him. “Men!”  
  
Geralt tries to reach for the metal bar between his hands so he can leverage himself up, or the chain, but they are well out of reach of his fingers, and he can’t get his feet under him; his legs are trembling madly for some reason.  
  
There are stars everywhere, and Geralt clenches his teeth as he tries to breathe through the pain.  
  
His chin is gripped tightly and jerked upwards, forcing Geralt to look Damien de la Tour in the eyes. The room is getting brighter and brighter, and the reason becomes clear when two of the captain’s men, lighting the torches spaced evenly around the room, enter his field of vision.  
  
The stars dwindle, and Geralt can see the scorn in the captain’s eyes and the way his nose is wrinkled up in disgust. The captain grips his chin in an even tighter hold before taking a step closer, their noses nearly touching. “You reek, witcher,” de la Tour sneers, releasing his hold and stepping away, flapping his hand in front of his nose.  
  
Geralt doesn’t react. He’s not going to be shamed by de la Tour’s taunts; not over the condition his body’s been forced in.  
  
He does close his eyes though when the torches in his view have been lit. It’s too bright after so long in the dark, and while he welcomes the light his eyes burn and he feels hot tears trailing down his cheeks.  
  
“I warned you before, Geralt,” de la Tour says to him, sounding all calm and friendly as he lays his palms on Geralt’s cheeks and uses his thumbs to wipe away his tears. “I cautioned you to tread lightly, and you did not, resulting in the brutal murder of Her Illustrious Grace’s sister, Sylvia Anna.” He jerks his chin at the men, and Geralt hears their footsteps falling lightly on the stone floor, until they stop somewhere behind him. They’re still present in the cell, likely standing in the doorway; making sure he doesn’t try anything.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Geralt wheezes, forcing his eyes to meet de la Tour’s, the strain on his shoulders and lungs making it difficult to catch a good breath.  
  
“Silence, witcher!” The captain growls, wrapping one of his hands around Geralt’s neck and squeezing.  
  
Hanging like a puppet with half of its strings cut, Geralt turns limp in submission, letting his head drop as much as he’s allowed, with de la Tour still gripping his neck and caressing his cheek.  
  
“Good.” The captain lets go of his neck and puts his hand on Geralt’s chest, splaying his fingers wide over his sternum, where Geralt’s medallion used to rest. “Good,” de la Tour repeats, patting Geralt’s chest as though he’s praising a well-behaving animal. “Well, this won’t do.”  
  
That is all the warning Geralt gets before the captain reaches for his sides and heaves him up, waiting for Geralt’s instinctive fumbling until he manages to get his legs back under him as well as he can, forcing him on tiptoes again.  
  
From the raw feel of them, Geralt knows his wrists are bruised and chafed bloody, but it’s a relief when the metal cuffs are no longer cutting into his skin. The change in position has done nothing to ease his breathing, though.  
  
Captain de la Tour stands up straight and clasps his hands behind his back, reminding Geralt of an inspection, even more so as the man starts circling Geralt; a predator stalking its prey.  
  
Geralt doesn’t dare to open his mouth and stays silent and still; struggling to stay upright on trembling legs. His entire body is trembling now, actually, making it near impossible to stay in place.  
  
He can do this. He’s a witcher, he was made to endure much.  
  
There’s a rustling behind him, and all of a sudden he’s grabbed by his hair and his head is wrenched backwards with such a force it makes the stars come back with a vengeance. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut against them and the glare of the torches.  
  
Then his hair is released, and he stumbles when a hand pushes between his shoulder blades. This time he manages to stay standing though; a small victory.  
  
The world is spinning with a dizzying speed, in at least three different directions.  
  
There’s a rustling behind him again, and then something dark appears in his vision and is pressed up against his eyes.  
  
It takes Geralt a moment too long to realise that a blindfold’s being placed over his eyes, and he docilely waits for the knot to be tied. All he can see is grey now, but it’s an improvement to the pitch black of before.  
  
The cloth does reek though, of some pungent perfume Geralt’s smelled before, and it makes his eyes water.  
  
The hand at his throat is back, and a thumb painfully presses over a particular point in his neck.  
  
“So many lives lost in what bards already call ‘The Night Of The Long Fangs’. Hundreds of lives, _witcher_ ; men, women and children… all brutally slaughtered,” de la Tour hisses, and Geralt feels the man’s spittle on his cheek.  
  
Geralt’s mind flashes to the streets of Beauclair and the lesser vampires attacking, and guilt gnaws at his stomach. He weakly jerks his wrists against the cuffs, trying to remove the captain’s hand from around his neck, but he _can’t reach_.  
  
A high pitched ringing starts up in his ears, blocking out all other sounds. Geralt tries to swallow, but his tongue feels unwieldy and somehow… He can’t…  
  
Breathing shallowly, he weakly tries to twist his head to the side, attempts to jerk out of de la Tour’s stranglehold, and fails utterly.  
  
Then the pressure is gone, and Geralt sucks in greedy breaths until the ringing in his ears finally stills.  
  
“Look at you,” de la Tour spits with scorn, lightly stroking Geralt’s neck before pressing his thumb against the artery there.  
  
Geralt gasps, and his hands jerk as he tries to dislodge the hand squeezing the life out of him. He jerks a leg up, but the shackle around it has hardly any give and all his weak struggling manages to achieve is making him stumble and lose his balance, until he’s sagging in his bonds again, all his weight hanging from his wrists.  
  
He’s breathing, but he _can’t breathe.  
  
_Puppets, hanging listlessly in the toyshop, flash in his mind’s eye. He’s like them now.   
  
_I find these puppets rather… disturbing.  
_  
The world turns darker and darker, and the ringing…  
  
“Just like a freak,” a voice tells him when he can breathe again, and there’s a soft pat to his cheek.  
  
Every part of Geralt hurts as he’s trembling furiously in his bonds. He can’t still his tremors and his wrists are twin points of hot sharp _agony_.  
  
“I always knew you were a freak,” the voice tells him chidingly, and a too warm hand is placed over his cock.  
  
Geralt nearly wrenches his shoulders out of his sockets at the intimate touch. His arms are burning. It feels like he’s in a hellish inferno, and blood is rushing through his ears. His body decides to give up all fight. This is not a situation he can get himself out of. Not even now that he wants to be anywhere _but_ here.  
  
The world is fuzzy. That’s actually good. At least that way the captain has no aware recipient to his taunts and torments. If de la Tour kills him now, Geralt won’t be aware.  
  
Geralt allows himself to float, to let his mind drift away…  
  
The pungent odour of ammonia right under his nose shocks him back into awareness, and it feels like his nose has been scorched. His eyes tear up, and Geralt blinks rapidly, willing the sting to pass.  
  
That’s when he realises the blindfold’s off, and he can see the captain of the guard standing right in front of him, arms crossed over his chest.  
  
There’s another man standing in front of Geralt, still holding a little vial in his hand. “All ready again, captain.”  
  
Geralt blinks furiously and takes a deep breath. “Da-mien,” he gasps, not understanding why de la Tour, of all people, is debasing himself like this. “W-hy?”  
  
The captain steps closer, blindfold in hand, and Geralt can see the flicker of regret flitting over the man’s features just a bare moment before the blindfold is back in place, hiding the world from his eyes.  
  
“The master's eye fattens the calf,” de la Tour breathes softly, his words clearly meant only for Geralt’s ears. The phrase is familiar, and this time it sounds like an apology.  
  
“You’re… her ri-ght… h-and,” Geralt gasps, “a kn-ight. V-vir-tues…” He understands dedication to a sovereign, and de la Tour’s besotted with Anna Henrietta, but Geralt’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve _this_.  
  
Geralt’s chin is pulled down, and then something’s being pushed inside his mouth; it feels like a large, wadded up cloth. He tries to spit it out, but before he can do so something else is tied around it, and he’s effectively gagged. “Hmmf,” he tries to speak around the gag anyways, in a bid to reason with the captain, but his words have turned into muffled groans.   
  
“I swore upon the Heron… to obey Her Illustrious Grace’s every command,” de la Tour whispers in his ears. “I cannot go against my vow.”  
  
Geralt jerks against his chains in helpless frustration, hoping to pass out and not caring whether he wakes up in darkness, or even whether he wakes up at all.  
  
“Men!” The captain shouts, and then there are hands on Geralt’s body; lifting him up and keeping him still.  
  
His arms are jostled, and then something pops and his arms fall down, even as Geralt’s manhandled onto his back. His hands are still trapped, held wide apart by the metal bar connecting the cuffs, and his shoulders burn and itch, but at least he’s no longer hanging from his wrists. He doesn’t even care when his arms are lifted up again and he feels a tugging somewhere behind him. There’s a metal thudding, and then the men step away from him and it’s so much cooler in the cell again.  
  
Geralt tugs on his wrists and immediately realises he’s been pinioned to the ground.  
  
“There, that’s better, is it not?” The captain’s voice comes from somewhere to the side.  
  
Geralt startles as something sharp is pressed against his belly; a knife, perhaps. He freezes, but instead of the stab he was expecting he feels his shirt being pulled, and then there is a quiet rasping sound as the knife cuts through the burlap. Up and up, all the way to his neckline, and then making quick work of his sleeves.  
  
“Did you ever wonder, witcher,” de la Tour murmurs thoughtfully as he trails the knife lightly over Geralt’s skin, “what it must have felt like? For Sylvia Anna, I mean.”  
  
There’s a sharp pinch as the cool metal is pressed against his neck, right over the scar of a bruxa bite, and the feeling that comes next is familiar enough that Geralt knows the captain’s drawn blood with just a nick in his flesh.  
  
“Hnnmf,” Geralt moans, turning his head in the man’s direction.  
  
Cold metal, a bit sticky, taps against his jaw. “Be still, Geralt.” The knife returns to his chest, tapping the scar right next to his heart before pressing just hard enough to cut Geralt’s skin, and then repeats it with a similar scar just a bit lower, just beneath his ribcage, and lower still. “Do you remember these? How much they hurt? How similar are these to a vampire’s claws?” The knife returns and lightly trails the three slashes on his chest, but this time de la Tour doesn’t make him bleed.  
  
Geralt does remember, actually. He remembers all the scars and all the pain that came before them.  
  
“Get a bucket of water,” de la Tour orders one of his men, and Geralt hears the tromp of metal boots leaving the room before disappearing up the stairs.  
  
Geralt swallows dryly around the gag. Water… He’s so thirsty. “Hmmn?” He attempts to calls for Damien.  
  
There’s a sharp glide over his left nipple, and then a gaping burn, made only worse as de la Tour presses the flat of the blade over it before lifting the knife and tapping the sticky blade against Geralt’s lips.  
  
“Nearly there, Geralt,” de la Tour tells him. “Be. Silent.” And the man’s voice actually sounds nearly pleading for him to keep still.  
  
Not in the mood to antagonise the captain any further, Geralt dejectedly turns his head in the other direction and closes his eyes.  
  
For far too long there’s only the soft sounds of breathing, and then Geralt can make out the guard’s boots as the man approaches, long before the captain and the other guardsman notice their colleague.  
  
“Good. Just a moment,” de la Tour tells the man when he’s finally near enough.  
  
Geralt sucks in a breath as he feels the sharp knife gliding over his prison breeches. The captain first traces the sharp instrument over his cock, barely protected by the burlap, before moving the knife back up again. Then the knife is being drawn down each leg, and Geralt’s jostled as de la Tour tugs the destroyed breeches out from under him. His breath catches in his throat when cold water is thrown over him, and he moans as none of the water is offered to him.  
  
Several pairs of hands are on him, and soaked cloth smelling of lye is being rubbed over his legs and his genitals.  
  
The hand is back at his neck; a thumb pressing down on his artery again, and Geralt thinks he actually prefers the knife over the strangling.  
  
“The Duchess is suffering, witcher,” de la Tour tells him, letting go of the pressure after only a second, but not removing his hand from Geralt’s skin. “The light in her eyes has gone out. It’s like she’s dying a thousand deaths each time she’s reminded of Sylvia Anna’s brutal death.”  
  
The pressure is back, and this time the captain doesn’t remove it until Geralt starts becoming lightheaded, and he twists weakly in the shackles pinning him to the ground. His entire body’s buzzing and tingling and he feels _off_ as the world disappears around him.  
  
_A flash of red hair. Hands, trapped above his head in dimeritium cuffs. A green light. A hand on his neck…  
  
“Come, Geralt,” a voice croons.  
  
_“Come, Geralt,” a gruff voice commands. “A little death… there’s a good witcher.”  
  
Geralt struggles to breathe through his nose, and his chest heaves with his efforts. His body jerks and shudders, and his cock feels all warm and tingly. It’s only when the shudders quiet that he notices the hand wrapped around his shaft, moving up and down in lazy strokes.  
  
“That is one,” de la Tour informs him, stroking his limp member softly, almost lovingly, “nine hundred and ninety nine to go.” The captain tugs on Geralt’s blindfold and takes the cloth away from his eyes. Then he touches the tips of his fingers to Geralt’s lips and squeezes his spent cock with his other hand. “Not a word to anyone, Geralt,” the captain warns him.  
  
Geralt only blinks at the man, and apparently de la Tour is satisfied with what he sees, because he releases his hold on Geralt’s over-sensitised flesh and tugs on the knots holding the gag in place, freeing the moist cloth from his mouth. His jaw aches and he can’t close his mouth, but Geralt is glad to be able to suck in large gulps of air.  
  
“Bring him back to his cell,” the captain orders in a stern voice. “Give him fresh rations, but no clothes. We’ll be back here tomorrow.” Not looking back down at Geralt, Damien de la Tour exits the brightly lit prison cell.  
  
“Matthew, guess who’s visiting Her Illustrious Grace? It’s the bard, I tell you; the one Duchess Anna Henrietta ordered banished on the pain of death. Heard it from the cook!” One of the guards whispers to the other, apparently unaware that Geralt can hear him.  
  
“Death all around,” the other guard, Matthew, speaks, moving towards Geralt and staring down at his naked crotch. “And more death will follow. Have the rope ready.” The man quickly releases the shackles on Geralt’s ankles before moving on, up higher, to free his wrists and jerking them down.  
  
Geralt’s arms _scream_ at him as they are finally lowered, and then the world spins as the guard shoves his hip with his foot, rolling him until he’s prone and his forehead is touching the floor. His stomach is doing that squeezing thing again, and he coughs as bile backs up in his throat.  
  
He knows he doesn’t deserve this. This is not justice, this is cold revenge, and the Duchess has sent her favourite beagle to exact it on Geralt. A beagle loyal to its mistress, blind to the world, only obeying its mistress’ orders after being fed scraps from the table that one time.  
  
Closing his eyes, Geralt ignores the guards as they tie his wrists behind his back. By now his entire body is just one lump of pain, and he’s feeling utterly worn out, completely wrecked and hollow from hunger and thirst.  
  
When the guards roughly pull him to a stand and push him forwards, Geralt’s head spins and he hears the blood pounding up a storm in his ears. The brightness of the room has dimmed, but stars keep flashing in front of him, even as he closes his eyes.  
  
Geralt’s legs wobble as he stumbles over his own feet, and he collapses, smashing his head against the rough stone floor.  
  
He drifts off into darkness, only to awake later, still in the dark. He’s slumped against a wall, and the air is hot and humid and just _rank_ , though at least the rope has been removed from his wrists.  
  
Geralt carefully feels around his dark prison, and if his throat wasn’t feeling dry as sandpaper he would have cheered the moment his fingers touches a carafe and then, feeling around some more, a piece of bread. He wolfs down the new rations, even though he knows better, and when all is gone he draws his knees up to his chest and hunches over so he can rest his chin on one of them. He feels utterly exhausted.  
  
Geralt stares at what he thinks must be the door, and wonders just how long he’s been here.   
  
**The end**

**Author's Note:**

> \- Non-con warning: Damien’s torturing Geralt, using a.o. strangulation to force a little death (orgasm) on him. No lasting physical damage, but Geralt definitely needs the help of his friends after all this.  
> \- On what happens after this story finishes: First of all, Geralt doesn’t rot away in prison! Never! Dandelion’s been in Toussaint for a while now, bartering for Geralt’s release, and Geralt WON’T have to go through this ordeal again. On the morrow, the guard comes for him and chucks some clothes at him, and he’ll be led up this time, outside, where Dandelion and Regis will be waiting for him. After this though, he’s heading for the north, leaving Corvo Bianco and all the people behind, and he’ll end up in the Chameleon and yes, Dandelion will find out and then him and an angry vampire will have their own revenge.  
> \- Damien did what he did by order of the Duchess, and while he’s furious at Geralt for sneaking Syanna away, he does what he’s been ordered to do – and is actually going lighter on him than Anarietta ordered, working within the bounds of her command.  
> \- Little tidbit of info about Henri III and his reforms, just to highlight it here instead of making you look it up. From the witcher wiki: “[Henri III] reformed Bastoy Prison by a decree which diminished prison guard, forbade physical punishments and dark cells, limited flogging, allowed prisoners to possess private property and walk around the prison grounds. Furthermore, prisoners were to be fed properly and taught how to read and write.” Pity that those decrees didn’t survive, because what’s going on in the prison is definitely NOT all right.  
> \- Some lines in this fic are actual lines from Blood and Wine, if you’re familiar with the game I think you’ll have recognised them.


End file.
